


Dozing

by orphan_account



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Eliot Waugh, Sickfic, probably somewhere in s2, who knows what timeline this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 12:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19273660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Quentin's not feeling great. Eliot tries to help. Fluff ensues.





	Dozing

It’s the day Eliot comes back, they have a date, and Quentin is in bed, running a fever and feeling like death warmed over. Or. Well. Death colded over, because he can’t get fucking  _ warm _ . He keeps shivering and even though he’s got blankets piled on the bed, it’s not helping. It’s also not helping that Eliot is still out of town. He’s due to be back by lunch time, and Quentin keeps almost calling him but then deciding against it. 

He’s  _ not _ a baby. He can take care of himself, it’s just a little cold.

Snuffling into the sleeve of Eliot’s old sweatshirt, one the older man bought as a teenager that he’s reserved for sick days and maudlin feelings, Q yawns and presses his face into his pillow, coughs and then closes his eyes. He dreams of the Fillory he used to believe in, the one full of happiness and life.

********

Eliot’s never been more happy to be home in his life. After a long few days helping Margo at some party thing in the ‘muggle’ world as she’d put it, he’s ready to be back with his boyfriend. He’s already got a nice evening out planned, followed by steamy, hot sex, a nice bath, and then a second round of sex. Quentin’s going to love it. 

Walking into their little apartment, he’s struck by how warm it is. Granted, it’s November and cold as fuck, but it’s almost stuffy inside their place, which makes Eliot seek out the thermostat instantly. 73 and on heat. Jesus. 

“Q what the fuck? Are you trying to sweat Satan out of hell?” He calls out, waiting for a response. There isn’t one. Frowning, Eliot drops his bags, takes his vest off and then walks the short walk to their bedroom. 

That’s when he sees the softest, most pathetic looking thing he’s seen in his life. 

Quentin Coldwater, curled up in their large queen bed, hair messy and all over the place, wearing his jacket, asleep.   


His mouth is slightly open, and he’s making these tiny snoring noises that really, if Eliot’s being honest, should be illegal because Jesus he’s so perfect.   


“Hey handsome,” Eliot murmurs after walking over and draping himself on the bed. Quentin stirs, eyes fluttering open. He tries to speak, but he’s half asleep and his throat’s  _ so _ sore, so he ends up spluttering and then turning his face to cough into the crook of his elbow. When he’s finished almost hacking up a lung, he squints and then looks over at Eliot. 

“You’re back,” he breathes out, and his shoulders visibly relax, in a way Q hadn’t even realized was needed. 

“You sound awful,” Eliot observes, noting the slightly stuffy quality to his guys voice. He sees the flush to Q’s cheeks, how it’s more prominent than his usual blushes. 

“You feeling okay?” He asks, one slim hand reaching to press against the others cheek. He gets confirmation that no, obviously he’s not okay, when he feels the warmth pooling off of Q, how he leans in a little without thinking. 

“How long have you felt bad baby boy?” The older man asks softly, brow furrowing. 

“Jus’today. Tired. Lay with me?” Quentin looks up, eyes large and puppy dog-ish. Eliot feels suddenly so terrible he’d not been there earlier. 

“Of course. Let me change alright? Have you eaten at all?” 

Quentin shakes his head, not wanting to use his voice anymore. His eyes droop a little, and he brings the quilt a little closer. He’s not even that hungry. He opens his eyes again and Eliot’s there, pulling off the quilt, but then he wraps his arms around him and Q lets himself drift off again. 

*************

“You want soup? I can make Margo bring some over. Or Penny. I’d probably burn the shit out of it if I tried making some,” Eliot thinks out loud. Quentin is huddled on the couch, feeling achy and tired and more than a little woozy. He looks at Eliot and shrugs. “Not hungry.” 

“You have to eat something sweetheart. You really don’t feel good do you?” At that, Q shakes his head reluctantly and shifts on the couch, letting out a few low, wheezy coughs. God he’s not even been sick a day and he wants it to be over. 

“....can I have mashed potatoes and applesauce?” He asks after a few minutes of Eliot texting Margo for advice. He’s been playing with Q’s hair, dragging his fingers through it. It’s making him even more tired. 

“Yeah, we can get you that,” Eliot promises, feeling his heart melt. He feels his boyfriends forehead, still too warm, and then texts Margo, asking her to bring the requested food and some medicine. 

  
Quentin sits up a bit, coughing into his arm, shivery and miserable. His head is pounding now, and his chest feels a little tight like it would when he was a kid and sick. He remembers inhalers and nebulizers and he  _ really _ doesn’t want to have to deal with that shit right now. So he lies back down under his blanket and closes his eyes, focuses on breathing and Eliot, the way their hands fit together, and the way it feels to have him running fingers through his hair. 


End file.
